


Crown of Thorns

by Ureksa_Crimsonriver



Series: The Lion and His Prince [2]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Briseis, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tagging as I go, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, but seriosly this evolved to something I cant control, i seriously dont know what I'm doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ureksa_Crimsonriver/pseuds/Ureksa_Crimsonriver
Summary: Achilles watched the sleeping figure lying peacefully on his makeshift bed, hunted eyes scanning the tanned bruised skin partially covered by thin sheets. Fingers twitching as he remembered the feel of that skin just under his fingertips, the shivers wrecking the lithe toned body as it arched beneath his every touch, sweat glistening as it reflected the light cast by a lone torch attached to one of the tents mast. Moans, gasps and whimpers still ringing in his ears even with the sound of the evening sea breeze raging outside. He sighed and buried his head in the cradle of his open palms, images of tear stained cheeks, vacant brown eyes and broken bleeding skin dancing just behind his closed lids.“Achilles . . .” the tents flaps were pushed aside, Odysseus breaking the tense silence inside.Achilles snapped his head up, turning abruptly to his unexpected and not-quite-welcomed guest, bringing a finger against his pursed lips to signal the man to be quiet. He stood up, sparing the sleeping form a lingering glance before passing the stunned Odysseus and heading outside, noticing the passing look the man gave the still figure at his bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My promised sequel of Rupture of the Heart, enjoy! It’s a little longer that I expected it to be thought, so i kinda divided it into chapters. I put in a couple of OC’s there, It’s been a long time since I read THE ILLIAD and my notes and papers about Greek history so I’m not quite sure about the identities of some of the people here, ergo I replaced them with OC’s. But not the main and important ones though, them I remember quite clearly. I wanted to research about them, but with everything I have going on, I don’t have the time. So please just bear with me here.
> 
> And since its mostly unfinished yet, I'm gonna be tagging it as I go!
> 
> Dedicated to my lovely Sister!!!!

Briseis sighed, soft brown eyes looking out to the open sea, watching the numerous ships sway atop the darkened waves. She wrapped her hands around her small body as the evening breeze blew past her still form, the cold water barely touching her naked toes as she stood just before the shore. How long has she been here? Entrapped yet strangely cared for by her captors, by the enemy of her very nation, her people, her family. She had tried so many times to escape, and found out it was better to stay within the comforting presence of the myrmidons, of men known to be merciless and barbaric, than challenge her chances of being captured by Agamemnon’s soldiers. She had been in his grasp once before, how briefly it may have been, and had seen what a beast he truly was. So she stayed, appreciated the companionships some of the myrmidons shared with her, the protection they had provided her from the soldiers far from the beds of their wives’ and mistresses, enjoyed the surprisingly soulful and eye-opening discussions between her and their feared and respected master. And in time, she was even willing to stay with them, finding peace she had unknowingly been searching for all her life behind her city’s temple walls. But now, now she was once again lost. Thorn between her found loyalty to the ones who cared for her even when she was seen as a captured enemy and the love she holds dear for a family member who had never let her feel alone and left behind.

She sighed, tucking her wayward curls at the back of her ear as she turned. Her gazed falling at the distant tent she had stayed during her capture up until he was brought inside, bloody and unconscious. She could not put in any words the feelings she had felt when she saw Hector at the arms of Achilles; body bruised and wounded, armour slashed and almost falling off of his lithe frame. She was horrified, yet grateful finding him still breathing even how laboured it may have seemed. She had expected him to die, to be brought dead strapped and dragged behind Achilles’ chariot. And she was relieved to find him alive. But the relief was short lived, for the fear strike her there and then as she gazed up at Achilles’ darkened face with the intention of showing her gratitude that he had spared her cousins life, and what she saw stunned her speechless. Steel blue eyes alit with fury and barely contained rage, thin lips pressed tightly together in the effort to contain the snarl of hate she was sure he wanted to bare. And in that very moment she had wished, cruel and horrid it may seem that Hector should very well have died in that fight. That the realm of Hades was heaven compared to what awaits him when he decides to open his eyes. For she had seen the cruelty Achilles has been known for, the brutality he exude when someone he cares for and sees as his own got hurt, much less threatened. And in this case, he had just lost a dear family.And she can see the pain coupled by hate and loathing swirling within the depths of his eyes, fuelling his clouded mind for revenge.

She was soon escorted out of his tent, made to stay with his most trusted Neoptolemus. And from then on, she had not seen head nor hair of her cousin. And it worries her so. She had wanted to see him, fought tooth and nail to care for the cousin she had unknowingly missed. But Neoptolemus was always there, fixing her with a gaze that told of horrors and pain she would not wish to see, holding her at length with arms that fought to protect her from the brutality she knew deep inside that her cousin was suffering. And she could not had been more thankful, and though more frustrated, for his silent support. She had ask him numerous times of her cousins wellbeing each time he was sent for by Achilles, knowing he could have had a glimpsed of Hector from within his masters dwellings. But he had always answered her with averted gaze and silence heavy with guilt and dare she say pity. And she could not hold back the helpless tears at nights when she can hear the screams of pain and the endless plea for mercy echoing through their camp, the familiar voice once a deep, dulcet tone now raspy and strained. There were days as well, when she can hear skin slapped and hit, of snapping bones too loud to be anything but intentionally inflicted. And all she can do was wept helplessly at the arms of Neoptolemus, comforted by his tight embrace and whispered reassurances. But it was not enough.

Narrowing her eyes, she walked back to the privacy of Neoptolemus’ tent, passing by the large fire made by Achilles’ men for the night, the flames dancing and swaying with the winds every gust; nodding absently to the few men gathered around its emanating warmth. The plan she had spent so long to form churning within the confines of her thoughts. She would bring him home, free him and take him back to the safety of their City walls where he would be cared for. Even if it was in exchange for the makeshift family she had made here, or the dangers of the men beyond this camp. She will save him, as he has done to her when they were but children. She would be his shinning knight this time, freeing him and whisking him away from the dragon that had kept him within its claws. Getting ready for a long nights rest, she sent a silent prayer to the gods for what she was about to do and a whispered apology for the ones, unwillingly it may be, she knows she’ll betray.

 

Agamemnon’s tent can be called anything but quiet. His allies shouting at one another from the moment he had sent for them, curses and accusations thrown each way as the argument hit its peak: The unbreachable walls of Troy. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with ringed fingers, the loud noise making his head throb painfully. He can understand their distress, even if the shouts made it impossible to understand what really it was they were screaming about. The battle they have come here to wage had stretched on for so long. Months dragging onto years and everyone, from the King to the Chieftains to the lowliest soldiers had grown weary; Victory seemingly a distant dream. And with the capture of the Trojan Prince, they were thrilled by the opportunities it had opened for their side, sure that Troy will fall soon enough without its strategist, its bravest son, its seasoned warrior. But it seems the Myrmidons master had plans of his own. And he was unwilling to pry about the man’s doings. He had once attempted to take the Trojan girl, which had won him Achilles’ spite; he’s not willing to risk his head in baiting the Lion by stealing its toy.

The loud voices and shouts ceased as fast as it started, well dressed Lords looking towards their irritated King with questioning looks. The fools waiting for answers they indolently thought would be provided. Agamemnon wondered idly how he came to be with the alliances of these useless men. The only other King he found useful within his allies was the King of Ithaca, and the man was regretfully at the side of Achilles. Maybe threatening the wife and child was not a good bet in winning the wise mans favour?

“My King, this cannot go on much longer!” one of the Lords at his far right bravely ventured on. “There was an agreement, to the Victor be given Helen; and the Trojans had breached it by the attack upon your brother. Surely it is enough reason to demand the Trojan Princes’ presence!”

“King Menelaus must be avenged!” one bellowed. Followed by the others prompting another shouting match; the noise much louder than the one before.

Agamemnon suppressed a baleful snort. The fool was asking for death anyway, with his claim of the beautiful Helen as his bride he was bound to be betrayed. May it be an ally, regardless of the oath of alliance from each suitor; or a rivalling City who’s Kings’ eyes were dead set towards the lovely Princess. It was only a matter of time, and the actions of the youngest Trojan prince were a favour to his cause. Who would have thought that his ambition of conquering the Legendary City of Troy be brought upon by one fools fancy of Love? Retrieving his brothers’ wayward wife was the perfect pretence to bring Troy to its knees and eventually to his beck and call. But alas, even with the greatest warriors at his command, with the exception of the Myrmidons and its Master, Gods only knew who holds their leash; Troy still remained standing tall and proud. With its looming walls and a Strategist Prince blessed by the Gods, factors Agamemnon admits he gravely underestimated.

He sighed once again, cold onyx eyes watching the war of voices and words of his companions. His gaze slithered to the left, falling on the only quiet figure among his chieftains. Dark curls of hair framing his dark set face, ashen eyes down cast and fixated at the floor, thin lips framed by well-trimmed moustache and beard, square jaw resting on a calloused hand propped up on one knee. Nestor was the image of a laid back man, with his features always so open and beckoning; it was strange and fascinating to see the man now so deep in thought, expression closed off and contemplating. Agamemnon suppressed the smile that wanted to break free from his otherwise grim face; maybe there was still hope to win this war. The King of Ithaca may be a very wise man and though regretfully not as his ally (well, willingly of course); Nestor was a man of many machinations and more importantly a man who shares the same view as Agamemnon. Grey eyes glinted with unknown mirth before looking up and meeting Agamemnon’s assessing stare. For a moment they sat, both quiet and contemplating; and finally, the menacing smile he had held back slowly crept upon Agamemnon’s lips.

 

Achilles watched the sleeping figure lying peacefully on his makeshift bed, hunted eyes scanning the tanned bruised skin partially covered by thin sheets. Fingers twitching as he remembered the feel of that skin just under his fingertips, the shivers wrecking the lithe toned body as it arched beneath his every touch, sweat glistening as it reflected the light cast by a lone torch attached to one of the tents mast. Moans, gasps and whimpers still ringing in his ears even with the sound of the evening sea breeze raging outside. He sighed and buried his head in the cradle of his open palms, images of tear stained cheeks, vacant brown eyes and broken bleeding skin dancing just behind his closed lids.

“Achilles . . .” the tents flaps were pushed aside, Odysseus breaking the tense silence inside.

Achilles snapped his head up, turning abruptly to his unexpected and not-quite-welcomed guest, bringing a finger against his pursed lips to signal the man to be quiet. He stood up, sparing the sleeping form a lingering glance before passing the stunned Odysseus and heading outside, noticing the passing look the man gave the still figure at his bed.

The evening breeze was biting on his skin, yet he couldn’t decide whether the chill that crept up his spine was a result of the wind or the memories that still lingered within the recesses of his mind. He felt the presence of Odysseus a moment later, the wise king standing to his left and gazing off towards the endless stretch of water. He can feel the wisp of white cloth grazing his forearms from the man beside him, the robe Odysseus wore billowing with the winds every gust. The man was quiet, as he was wont to be when he was thinking and mulling over the things he needed to say, picking words and phrases to best convey his thoughts and ideas. It was no wonder that Achilles preferred the presence of the wise man than any of the other chieftain of Agamemnon’s army, their conversations filled with wisdom and deeply kept opinions. Each respecting the beliefs of one another and though clashing at times, it was always discussed with calm tones and considering words. Achilles may be believed to be a fine warrior and a fine warrior only, with his prowess and attitude on the battlefield and his well known cruelty and brutality to those he deemed an enemy; yet he had always been one to learn a great deal from experience and his surroundings. Thinking things over a great fit for him yet not impossible, keeping in mind his mothers words and teachings as well as the wisdom he had gained on his journeys.

“I hope you know what you are doing, my friend,” Odysseus said, tone soft yet heard clearly over the sound of the sea.

Achilles closed his eyes, willing his temper to not rear its ugly head. It has always been the cause of his mad actions and erroneous decisions. And the most recent result of its display lies at his bed.

“To be truthful, I myself do not know what I am doing. My only reprieve is that I am, impossible as it may seem and outrageous as it may sound, at peace when HE is within my arms,” Achilles braved, his fist tightening at the feelings churning within his chest.

“I know that I am not in the place to say it, for I have not experienced the pain that pushed you to do what you have done nor was I the one to feel the grief of losing someone so precious to me; but this cannot continue much longer. You have broken the man’s soul, bestowed to him the greatest pain no man has ever faced. Do not believe that I was not there when you took his manhood in front of all Achilles,” Odysseus said, tone getting grimmer with each word, bottle green eyes sharpening as it regarded him with a knowing stare.

He gritted his teeth, anger and guilt warring within. He knew, oh how he knew what his actions have caused. What he had done to the Prince in the heat of his anger and grief and thirst for revenge, all coming back to him in one fell swoop. And as much as he loath the reminder of it all, he knew as well that it was his burden to bear; far more heavier than the death of many a warrior by his hands. Yet he can’t accept the thought of freeing the Trojan prince, of letting his prize go, of giving back what he saw was rightfully his.The painful throbbing within his chest a testament to that.

“What would you have me do Odysseus? Return him to his people? What can they do to him that I cannot? He is mine, as the law of battle and war dictates. He is mine. I cannot let him go,” he gritted, and in a far more quiet tone whispered: “It’s far too late for me to.”

Odysseus regarded him for a moment, thoughts swirling within his unfaltering gaze. After Gods knew how long, he nodded his head briefly and turned his gaze to the sea.

“Then what do you plan to do, Achilles?” Odysseus quietly asked.

Achilles sighed, thankful for the silent acceptance of his decision.

“My men and I will fight one more battle for Agamemnon. Then we will set sail for home. My mother is quite well versed in healing. She may be able to . . .” He trailed off, not sure how to praise his next thoughts.

Odysseus nodded, “And the Trojan girl?”

“She will come with us. He will need her, and she has already been regarded as family.”

Odysseus kept quiet after that. The silence much more comforting than before and Achilles was once again reminded why he had favoured the man’s company. A moment later Odysseus straightened, grasping his shoulder and squeezing it briefly in silent support before turning around and leaving. Achilles let a small smile grace his lips, before turning and entering his tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned and I really would love some feedbacks!!!
> 
> Next would be Hectors point of view. Its a little dodgy so I'm still editing it a little bit. Almost finished though. And I'm gonna add some flash back and a hefty amount of Smut (grins evilly)


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